


Who Can Get Thee...

by Bethalous



Series: Agents of the Universes [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Death, M/M, Unresolved Feelings, but not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2018-01-20 00:36:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1490221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bethalous/pseuds/Bethalous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade finds a young drug addict and works hard to get him clean. No one said helping those in need was easy though, especially when they believe they should be left alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who Can Get Thee...

**Author's Note:**

> This is set both before You Learn New Things Everyday and after Goodbye is the Hardest Thing to Say.  
> The asterisk is to show the time gap.
> 
> Title taken from Volpone: "Who can get thee/ He shall be noble, valiant, honest, wise -"  
> I think it does a good job of describing Lestrade as he helps Sherlock. Also because I have spent the day revising quotes from that play.

_“Why are you still here?”_

_“Because you’re lost. And I know what that feels like.”_

_“I don’t want your help.”_

_“No. But you need it. So let me give it. Let me help you.”_

Sherlock pulled himself back to reality and tried to stop the tears from falling down his cheeks at the memory. He had to stop with the sentimentality – Lestrade was dead. It was that simple, and he needed to accept it. For some unfathomable reason though, he couldn’t; part of him just wouldn’t accept the fact that he would never again see and hear the detective inspector. He had no one to blame but himself; he knew that he shouldn’t have allowed himself to become so attached but he hadn’t had much choice. Lestrade had given him many of his most interesting cases, had completed the necessary work for sentencing a criminal, and had actually worked well with him. And now…that was gone. He could probably find another member of Scotland Yard to work with – Donovan and Dimmock had both realised that they needed his expertise – but he didn’t really want to. Some part of him seemed to believe that that would be a betrayal of Lestrade, which was completely ridiculous given that the man was dead. Yet still…Lestrade hadn’t just helped him with cases. When he was at his most vulnerable, the older man had come out of nowhere and brought him back to the land of living.

Sherlock sighed and lent back against the windowsill, looking over his shoulder onto the street. No more silver-haired inspector running up the steps with a case. He sighed again and closed his eyes to the sunlight pouring over him. He wasn’t one for reminiscing but this was a special occasion – this was Lestrade. The man he hadn’t realised he was in love with until it was too late to do anything. Letting the memory of their meeting overtake him, he tried to block out the sadness that had overtaken him since the funeral.

 

*

 

Lestrade growled in irritation as he had to jump out of the way of yet another cab trying to drench him. The rain had been falling without pause for nearly 8 hours now and London’s uneven streets were becoming an obstacle course of deep pools disguised as normal puddles, and it was driving Lestrade mad. He’d had a stressful day trying to find a kidnapper (no luck there), explaining to his landlord that he had paid this month’s rent (he thankfully won that one), and receiving his mission review from Control (he hadn’t dared to open that yet). All he wanted was to get home and collapse in front of the Chelsea game.

He decided to take a shortcut back to his apartment through one of the alleyways. It would keep him from being splashed and only held a small chance of being mugged, which he could decrease even further with his training as both an officer of the law and an agent of the universes. He was pleased with his reasoning and was walking confidently down the dark alleyway when he heard a noise that made him stop. It had sounded like a cough but not from a healthy set of lungs. Unsure whether he should be relieved or not that he didn’t have a flight instinct, Lestrade cautiously approached the area where he was sure the sound had originated. There, curled up on the ground, was a man obviously in the later stages of overdosing. Cursing that he wasn’t going to be getting to his bed anytime tonight, Lestrade knelt beside the man began to sit him up against the wall. He caught sharp cheekbones, curly black hair and pale skin before he focused on getting the man to a hospital. The closest was a few feet from the end of the alley so he hoisted the man up, slinging one of his arms over his shoulder, and proceeded to drag the barely conscious body to receive medical attention.

 

Lestrade sat beside the bed of the young man he had found. He had explained to the nurse that, though he didn’t know the man, he was an officer and wanted to make sure that he was okay and that his family would be contacted. The woman had looked at him critically but eventually decided to let him stay, at least until her patient woke up. So here he was, seated by a young drug addict (he could tell by the multiple tracks on his arms), wondering whether he should take the time to open the mission review or just continue keeping watch. The decision was taken from him though.

“Who are you?” a voice asked, somehow managing to sound superior despite the rasp. Lestrade looked up into cool grey eyes that were staring intently at him. The man was actually quite breath-taking but Lestrade barely let that thought form before dismissing it and focusing on his role.

“My name’s Greg Lestrade. I'm a detective inspector for Scotland Yard and I happened to find you on my way home.”

“That doesn’t explain why you are by my bedside. It is not customary of anyone, including police officers, to wait for the drug addicts they find to wake up.”

“Maybe I'm just a nice person.” The young man did not seem to appreciate his joking manner, bestowing upon him a look of deep suspicion. Lestrade decide he had to defuse the situation and make an escape quickly.

“I just wanted to make sure that your family would be contacted on where you were so that they didn’t worry. If you’ll just give me their details, I’ll go call them and leave.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“Why not?” Lestrade asked, narrowing his eyes as he regarded the young man.

“I don’t need them butting into my business. They’ll only be disappointed and try to force me into rehab.”

“That’s not a bad thing.”

“And how would you know?” the addict asked, annoyance beginning to colour his voice.

“Drugs aren’t good for you, mate. Getting off them is the best thing you could do.” Lestrade shot him a look sincerity and concern that seemed to throw him off for a beat but he quickly regained use of his mouth.

“It is none of your business, Inspector, what I do. Do not attempt to get involved.” His voice was cold and grated on all of Lestrade’s nerves.

“I'm sorry for caring,” he snapped back and rose out of the chair to leave. When he reached the door, he was stopped by a confused voice questioning him.

“Why do you care?” Lestrade took a deep breath but didn’t turn back around. He merely answered and left the room.

“I don’t like watching people throw their lives away. If it’s possible for me to help, I will.”

 

 

Lestrade didn’t understand that he had made an impact until the young addict appeared at his crime scene, high and spouting ridiculous yet believable deductions. Lestrade had listened to everything he’d said then locked him in his car. When he returned to his car 20 minutes later, it was empty and the lock had been broken.

A few days later he had turned up again, high once more. This time, Lestrade had joined him in the car and demanded a destination to drive him to. He had pulled up in front of a small and grimy block of flats and been granted the man’s name – Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective.

And so their association had begun. Sherlock solved crimes and Lestrade in return attempted to curb his addiction. It was hard work that involved a lot of shouting and slamming of doors until one day everything just completely exploded. Sherlock had relapsed once again and proceeded to scream at Lestrade for what seemed like hours. When he came to, he was lying on his bed and Lestrade was watching him from a chair in the corner of the room. Seeing that Sherlock was awake, Lestrade moved to sit on the edge of the bed and began running a hand gently through the young man’s tangled hair.

“Why are you still here?” Sherlock asked, his voice small and vulnerable.

“Because you’re lost. And I know what that feels like.”

“I don’t want your help.”

“No. But you need it. So let me give it. Let me help you.”

Sherlock slowly relaxed under Lestrade’s hand, taking in the words. No one had ever cared so much for him before and been this determined to help.

“Okay,” he whispered, and felt his heart give a jolt at the smile that bloomed on Lestrade’s face.

 

*

 

Sherlock pushed himself up and away from the window. He was Sherlock Holmes – he didn’t get depressed because someone died. However, that statement didn’t seem to be true anymore. He had invested in too many people, and one in particular. He sighed again and was about to head into the kitchen when something outside the window caught his attention. He turned to look and froze.

Standing on Baker Street, looking right up at him, was a familiar silver-haired man. The man gave him a soft smile as he fiddled with something on his wrist then…disappeared. Sherlock blinked and tried to rationalise what he had just seen. He couldn’t though; he was sure that had been Lestrade. But how? Perhaps he was just hallucinating in his depression. A look of concentration grew on his face. Whatever the reason, he had to get the street’s security tapes. He had a new case to keep him occupied.


End file.
